


Terre Firme

by Lasgalendil



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, IN SPACE!, M/M, Space Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:01:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elf loves Dwarf.<br/>Dwarf loves Elf.</p><p>In the future, all plant life is patented. Caught in an act of Corporate Espionage, The Botanist is sentenced to Cryostasis in the Silo. A criminal known only as The Architect sets out to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terre Firme

They told me not to come. Said it wasn’t worth it—said he wasn’t worth it.

I told them all to go to hell. Bloody Mercs, all of them. Money is the only loyalty they know. Maybe they’re right. A year ago they’d be right. A year ago I would’ve fucked him and left him, same as the others, a cover story, a chance connection, ships in the night, shit happens, too bad. A year ago I wouldn’t have cared.

But he’s just a Botanist, damn it. Not a criminal. Not like me. Loves plants and dirt, insects and poetry. It’d be one thing if he’d be getting a trial. But smuggling unlicensed, live cargo off world? With no patent protected sequencing? Terraforming without royalties or pollination fees? Anyone could crop a planet. Anyone could afford to eat. It’d be the end of The Corporation, end of Control, of the Worlds as we know it. 

No trial, then. It’s The Silo for him. Deep Ice. They don’t have authority to execute you—yet. But they can hold you in questioning for Corporate Espionage indefinitely. Everyone knows Terrarists go into the Ice. They don’t come back again. Vitrif’s expensive. Nitro’s not.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s not worth it. Then I think of his skin, soft mouth, the feel of him, crying out as he came, and know I can’t let him Freeze. Not forever. Not for me.

I asked around. Got the usual stories. The Silo is impregnable. Can’t be done, can’t help, are you mad, piss off. Over and over again: he must’ve been a damn good fuck. But I didn’t. We didn’t. Never did. Oh, I found him alright, followed him, bought him drinks until he was good and bloody drunk, plied him with attention and alcohol until I was sure he was the one. Young. Idealistic. Naïve. Textbook. A Terrarist to the core. Seducing him was easy work enough, but I had a mind to stow more than cargo with him. The sex took considerably more effort.

He was—awful. Apologetic, even. Asked him if it was his first time going down. First time with a man. First time. 

I was.

But he proved teachable enough. There were only two things I wanted from him at the beginning of the night, and by the end the Package was far from first on my mind. But in all that time, in all that trying, in all those sweaty, chafing hours together he didn’t want me there—too scared, too shy still perhaps—he didn’t let me inside.

They said it couldn’t be done. Impossible. But I did it. I did it alone. That’s right, you bastards. I got into The Silo before I ever got into him.

And here he is, after all these months. Lonely, naked, afraid. All he sees is the Uniform. The Cryo tube. He doesn’t see me. “Go on, then. Make it quick.”

“Before your sentence is carried out, you have a right to face your accuser.”

He turns. Pales. And the look on his face—even if this fails, I can’t regret this. “You were one of them?”

“The charges against you are espionage and Terrarism.”

“I trusted you,” he tells me. “I fucking loved you.”

“Do you deny them?”

Crying now. “You still—you did—you understand why I did it, don’t you?” he asks. “Why I had to do it?”

But the Cryo tube is waiting. And proper preservation takes time. “Please,” he begs. “Please, I—anyone but you.”

I felt bloody awful. But for this to work he had to be convincing. He had to be convinced.

They were right: The Silo is impenetrable. There is no breaking in, no breaking out. But safehouse, storage, prison, it makes no difference. There’s always one way in, and one way out. A man’s just got to have balls enough to use it. When a corporation believes itself unassailable, it will let anyone with the right confidence and credentials walk through it’s door. I’m The Architect. I’m a Smuggler, not a soldier, not a damned Terrarist. But I’ve killed Corporates for less than clearance, and everyone in the business knows the best way to hide is in plain sight.

It’s simple, really. To save a life, become the Executioner.

No weapons, no back up, no way out but the way I walked in. I came and left, and no one knew the difference. No one stops for Death.

It’s the Corporation. Things go in. Things go out. Sometimes things get misplaced. From there it was a simple matter of blackmail or bribery. Either way, the ending’s the same. I chose bribery—makes it easier to kill in cold blood, less collateral. I’m the Architect. I don’t leave loose ends. By the time those Corp bastards figure out what’s happened we’ll be a galaxy away.

And here he is, Safe. Naked. Frozen. Perfect.  
…mine.

“You.”

“You beautiful little fool, did you really think I would let them Freeze you?”

“Who are you? You’re not—one of them?’

“No.”

“You saved me.”

“Yes.”

And for a long while there is nothing left to say.

Then, “Where will we go?”

...He has no objections to bed.

I’m The Architect. I move things. I deliver. But destination, a plan, the Corporation? I’ll— _we’ll_ —deal with it when the time comes. For now I have a blushing Botanist waiting for me. “I—I’m ready this time,” he stammers as I spread him. “For you. For everything.”

“My beautiful idiot,” I undress and press myself between his thighs. “Is this what you're so afraid of? No matter. I’m not going to fuck you—not now. I’m going to suck you, suck you off until you’re sore and until I can taste you and only you. I want you to scream my name.”

“They only called you The Architect,” he moans as I take him in my mouth. “I don’t even know your name.”

A life among the Anagrists—a life on the run? Terraforming? Names? All for later. For now the feel of him beneath me is concern enough.

**Author's Note:**

> ...so basically smut in the guise of short story format science fiction.


End file.
